


What Could Have Been

by SpiralsInTime



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Child Abandonment, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Apologizes, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Cares About Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Anxiety, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia has PTSD, Insecure Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Insecure Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier comforts Geralt, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Roach Ships It (The Witcher), Self-harm (hair pulling during panic attack), Short One Shot, Touch-Starved Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Witchers Have Feelings (The Witcher), Wordcount: 1.000-3.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:28:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26051911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpiralsInTime/pseuds/SpiralsInTime
Summary: “You talk a lot; asking questions about...everything,” he paused, hearing the sound of Jaskier turning to face him, though his human sight must’ve barely shown anything but his outline. He was listening, so the Witcher continued; eyes feeling numb like he couldn’t process anything in front of him. “I-I was like that, before,”Jaskier let a full minute pass in silence, unsure, before prompting Geralt gently with a soft, “‘Before?’ Before...you became a Witcher?”“Hmm,” he affirmed roughly. His body forced him to finally blink, pleading for moisture, a break from the strain causing the burn behind his eyes. “You...you’re who I could have become," ...
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 16
Kudos: 304





	What Could Have Been

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by the eighth episode in The Witcher (Netflix) when Geralt has flashbacks of his childhood, that of which, he constantly asked questions about the world, chatting endlessly. Thus, when a certain talkative bard attaches himself to the Witcher, he gets triggered, reminded of the day he was abandoned; the day that left his fate to become a Witcher. 
> 
> TW // Panic Attack and Self-harm (Geralt tugs painfully at his hair during a panic attack)

Geralt didn’t analyze his hatred for the bard that attached himself like a bloodthirsty leech, who— no matter what he did—would not fuck off. He didn’t think about it. Geralt ignored his irritating optimistic view of the world; the beauty he claimed to find in everything, even within the smallest details. Scoffing, Geralt believed how naive the bard was for believing there’s good in every person; clearly, he was raised protected from the brutal truth that is life, which was proven when the elves captured them.

The bard truly believed the human’s tales that they were simply  _ given  _ the lands? Absolutely absurd. Ignorant and naive. The troubadour was evidently  _ human _ ; the oddity of speaking to a Witcher—as if they weren’t mage-made machines to kill—like speaking to the average man did not change this fact. Jaskier was young, ignorant, naive, and disappointingly human.

His longing to know everything was purely jaw-achingly annoying to Geralt; the constant questions flooding out directly onto the Witcher’s shoulders to answer—he didn’t. All Geralt knew for certain, was the overwhelming amount of irritation that struck him like a pissed-off mother Griffin was how the bard romanticized life; as if, the world was one fairytale with knights protecting princes and princesses from man-eating monsters such as dragons. There were no heroes—only manipulative, cunning villains in this world.

Currently, Jaskier was testing his limits; leisurely strolling behind him and Roach, ‘delivering exposition,’ as he calls it. Stringing along useless conversations, piled with facts, tales, and questions that all originated simply from randomness. It reminded Geralt of a noisy, pushy merchant, annoying people into purchasing from them; nearly as exasperating as listening to patrons talking arrogantly of their entitled lives as if  _ they  _ were the ones in oppression. 

It didn’t take long to figure out the bard was from the upper-class within society, with how much he spoke of his high education of learning the Seven Liberal Arts at Oxenfurt. As if that wasn’t evidenced enough, it was clear Jaskier was raised with a certain...entitlement and mannerisms embedded within him from a young age.

“To all the gods, it is way too bloody hot,” Jaskier exasperated, blowing a puff of air out his mouth, pulling at the top of his shirt to allow the breeze to cool him down. “Geralt, truly, it’s astonishing that you can stand this heat—like the sun is purposefully glaring down on us—with all that black leather,” he explained loudly, waving his unoccupied hand wildly through the air in front of him. “It’s almost like you’re cold-blooded, like a snake or some...other type of... _ thing. _ ”

Geralt—despite trying not to—snorted at the comparison, briefly considering the Viper Witchers. 

Jaskier took the reaction in the wrong way, quickly making his way to stand in front of Roach, walking backward. “Wait-wait, hold up, is that actually true—the cold-blooded thing?”

Looking down at the bard with the slightest bit of amusement—he did find it fun fucking with humans and how far he can get away with lying about his mutated body—but nevertheless sighed, deciding to explain he was most certainly not cold-blooded. 

As time went on, Jaskier had managed to trip over his own feet from clumsily walking backward, though saved his lute from face-planting into the hard dirt, letting his own body take the fall. Geralt shook his head, huffing a small amount of air out his nose as an unnoticeable laugh, and maneuvered his and Roach’s way around the offended bard. 

They slowly made their way to a breakthrough of the rocky path, heading towards the edge of a birch forest, Geralt ignored Jaskier’s rant about something to do with another bard he apparently hated, and stopped, swiftly swinging his body over Roach. 

“I swear to all the Gods, he has no talent regardless of his educa—uh, Geralt? What-what are we doing? You best not be leaving me out here to die,” Jaskier squinted at the Witcher suspiciously.

“If I wanted you gone, I could’ve easily left off with Roach; surely you can’t keep a horses’ speed,” Geralt padded said-horse down, watching dust hit the air coming out of the thick furs of the chestnut’s muscled neck. 

“Oh?” Immediately Geralt sighed to himself, hanging his head low, knowing he said the wrong thing when the bard’s voice went into his cocky, joking-flirtatious tone—Geralt’s least favorite. “So, you admit you want me here? I shouldn’t be too surprised, I am  _ quite  _ the company to have,”

“You’re  _ quite  _ annoying is what you are. I’m making camp; can’t travel with a clumsy bard in the dark,” he grunted, lifting off Roach’s saddle, padding her down before removing the bedrolls and leather bag. “You’d stumble, get hurt, and some bloodthirsty monster would smell your blood, leaving only me to dispatch it. Waste of my time,”

Jaskier squawked out in clear offense, waving his arms ‘round dramatically, at a loss of words to defend himself. Geralt set up camp, easily falling into the natural flow of the act he’d done thousands of times in the past eighty-years of his Witcher life. By the time he finished, Roach taken care of left to graze on the long grass and dandelions, a fire flickering with the pride of a lion, bedrolls laid out on either side of the burning embers, he noticed Jaskier sitting with his back to a thin birch tree, lute in hand.

Geralt sat down cross-legged, letting him drift off slightly to the gentle melody the bard gifted the wind to swirl around them. Jaskier’s eyes were closed, his face shifting with the dancing shadows of the fire, looking more creature than human. The bard started singing, hesitantly at first, quiet to not disturb the reticent orchestra of nature surrounding them but slowly raising his voice with clear passion. 

The golden sky painted wildly, clouds color-coated like brushstrokes, created with pure boldness. Jaskier’s hair was breathed fire into; the sun’s glow, a spotlight behind him, the edges of his body turning an orangey tone. He looked ethereal. 

Jaskier opened his eyes, meeting Geralt’s gaze with a soft smile before continuing his line of questions, much to the Witcher’s odium. “Do you believe in an afterlife, Geralt? I’ve always been fascinated by the concept, though can’t say I’m much of a believer - though, it would be nice if there was one.” Jaskier rambled, vocalizing the string of his thoughts while letting his fingers graze over the lute absentmindedly. “Do you ever think that the afterlife is an individualized thing - something your subconscious creates after death? Meaning, if one dies not believing in any type of higher being, such as a God, there wouldn’t be any; whereas, one who does believe in Gods, in their afterlife, they would meet their God? Therefore, no single individual is wrong, Gods exist as much as Gods don’t exist.”

Geralt tilted his head in thought, considering how...weird the bard was, not understanding his train of thoughts in the slightest. The only thing that came to his mind as a response was a dry:  _ why would Witchers believe in an afterlife? _

Jaskier stared into the fire, his star-like eyes mixing with the red of the flames, reminding Geralt of alchemy, the mixing of potions, a constant changing. “Geralt,” the bard looked up after the Witcher moved to start cleaning his swords, “If we were to fall off the world, where do you think we’d fall? Into another sphere? Do you believe there are infinite spheres - imagine if different spheres collided together instead of the ones that did here; how much would that change?”

_ What’s at the edge of the world? If we go past it, do we fall off the world? Where do we fall? Into another sphere? How many spheres are there? _

“Wonder if we would still meet-”

“Do you ever  _ shut up _ ?” Geralt cut him off, throwing down his sword aggressively, baring his teeth at the bard, eyes burning. “All you ever do is  _ talk.  _ Now I know why all your lovers left you,” he snarled out, ignoring the punch of pain on the bard’s face before storming off into the woods. His mind torturing him with memories of the road, a bucket filled with water—water he was asked to fetch—, and an apple formed by magic. “Fuck, shi- _ fuck, _ ” he growled out, jaw aching from the strain, hands shaking as if he were a human. He let himself drop carelessly to the forest’s flooring, his pants soaking in the damp ground like a sponge. 

“Geralt,” a pause, before again, “Geralt,” Jaskier’s voice copied that of the Witcher’s when calming down Roach. He couldn’t find the energy in him to force his facial features to the blank expression; it  _ scared  _ him. 

He hadn’t realized he was tugging at the strands of his hair until surprisingly gentle hands were cautiously placed atop of his own. “Hey, shh, Geralt, it’s me,” the words were whispered out to the side of him, the tone edging on a plea. “Can you hold on to my hands?”

Geralt’s hands loosened enough for the bard to graciously slip his own in the space where the hair was. “I’m going to sit down in front of you, now, is that okay? Mm?” Geralt could only manage a nod; the sound of shuffling, and his arms being led to follow the movement as his hands were never let go of. “Good, okay, thank you,” Jaskier’s voice settled in front of him, a warm presence just a few centimeters away; Geralt felt himself leaning, involuntarily drifting forward. With his eyes shut, trying desperately to get the voice of Visenna out of his head; the voice of his own rambling questions, though so disconnected from him now; that wasn’t him—couldn’t be. The voice being interrupted by another, a softer, calming one that seemed so far away; too far.

“Focus on my touch, okay? You’re here, with me—though, I suppose that’s probably not where you want to be, but hey, work with what you got, ya know?” Jaskier’s voice cracked at the end, a sad chuckle crawling from his throat, struggling to stay grounded for Geralt. 

“Good-that’s good, now I’m going to let go of one of your hands, just one, alright?” He continued narrating his movements ahead of time, allowing the Witcher to interject if need be. “Shh, you’re gonna be okay. Here, I’m going to rest my hand on your jaw, alright?” 

Geralt felt his hand clench tighter around the bard’s, closing his eyes harder, clear agony broadcasting on his face. He couldn’t help but twitch when a warm hand cupped his jaw, but let out a deep breath as the bard continued talking. “Shh, it’s okay,” he repeated, lightly running his calloused thumb up the Witcher’s cheek, easing away the tension there. 

They sat like that for some time; Geralt calming his mind down, focusing on the surprisingly soft, yet confident hand cupping his jaw; Jaskier racking his brain of what he did to cause such an  _ emotional _ reaction from the Witcher—sure, he was told to shut up, but the man said that to him regularly, never has his chattiness led to this. Jaskier could only make out the dark form of Geralt when he started shivering, his teeth chattering. 

Only then did he opened his eyes, pupils adjusting to the low-light. Geralt was suddenly very aware of the dim glow of the yellow given off by his eyes staring at the bard, hand still wrapped in his while a calloused thumb brushed rhythmically across the rough stubble he let edge his jaw. He stood up abruptly, causing Jaskier to jump with the sudden movement and the fall of his arms.

“You’re gonna die of hypothermia, bard,” he spoke dirly, turning to walk back to camp, ignoring the  _ wrongness _ of not having the warmth of Jaskier near him. He didn’t want to process what happened; didn’t want to think about it, nevermind talk about it, but yet, he couldn’t stop considering the warm comfort the bard gave to him so freely. 

Jaskier didn’t talk; didn’t hum or play his lute. The only sound he let out was the slight fidgeting of his fingers tearing at the skin around his nails, worry surrounding him nearly suffocatingly. They both lied in their bedrolls, put out purposely so the fire stood between them, embers slowly dying off. 

By the fast heartbeat, Geralt knew Jaskier wasn’t sleeping, lost in his own thoughts, peeling at his skin subconsciously—something he did when he was anxious. Geralt sighed, eyes staring deadly at the flickering leaves above him, he took a deep breath before deciding to talk to the darkness above him. “You talk a lot; asking questions about...everything,” he paused, hearing the sound of Jaskier turning to face him though his human sight must’ve barely shown anything but his outline. He was listening, so the Witcher continued; eyes feeling numb like he couldn’t process anything in front of him. “I-I was like that,  _ before _ ,” 

Jaskier let a full minute pass in silence, unsure, before prompting Geralt gently with a soft, “‘before?’ Before...you became a Witcher?”

“Hmm,” he affirmed roughly. His body forced him to finally blink, pleading for moisture, a break from the strain causing the burn behind his eyes. “You...you’re who I could have become,” the Witcher’s voice was void of any emotion, more so than usual, his body fighting to be sent back to that day he was alone. He tried to focus on the hummingbird-heartbeat across the dying fire.

The bard lied there feeling useless, yet full of fury of what was taken from Geralt; the man was seen as a monster; a tool to be used until not needed; treated as if he were a heartless killer—a murder—when he was nothing of those. One thing was true in the talk about him: Geralt was nothing like the human species. Humans had always been the conscious monsters of the world; they killed for pleasure, for land, for royalty, for revenge, all while being aware of their actions. Whereas, the Witcher refused to kill any cursed creature if a cure was possible, or if it was not harming anyone. He understood the difference between conscious, pointless killing, and killing to survive, such as Ghouls and Wyverns do. 

“I’m-I-Immaa walking reminder of what you could’ve been…” Jaskier’s voice was quiet enough to only be heard by Geralt with his heightened sense of hearing. He only received a grunt from the Witcher, the silence following felt like a punch stealing all of the air within his lungs. The bard felt dizzy with realization of how awful it must’ve been to tolerate his presence. “I-I see,” he coughed, desperately trying to cover up the shakiness of his voice. “Once we, um, reach the next town we can part-um,yeah-we-we can part ways,” Jaskier shut his eyes, turning his back to the Witcher, struggling to breathe evenly.

Unexpectedly, Geralt felt his chest tighten at the suggestion of leaving Jaskier, which furthered his frustration of the entire situation he managed to get stuck in. He didn’t want to analyze why he disliked the bard because it only led to thinking about all the reasons he  _ liked _ Jaskier’s presence. Yes, he reminded him of what could have been, but he was also giving what was forced out of him into his life by being beside him; chatting about everything and nothing; analyzing the world around him, while asking question after question in genuine curiosity. He made the Path less...lonely; more enjoyable even, at times. 

After eighty-years on the Path, only finding himself laughing three months each year when he settled at Kaer Morhen with the other Wolves, suddenly he found himself chuckling throughout his time spent with Jaskier. He was content—dare he say ‘happy’—more than he ever had been before. 

He grumbled, turning onto his side to face the bard’s back, trying to organize the jumbled mess of words in his head and form a logical sentence vocally. He grunted again, nearly in a childish, complaining way—guess Jaskier is rubbing off on him.

“Geralt, are you seriously grumbling like an upset toddler to get my attention?” Jaskier rolled over, his eyes red from wiping tears away, but a teasing smile formed his lips. “Are you okay?” He asked, features snapping back to worry. 

Geralt couldn’t remember a time in his life when someone asked him that, not a single time before Jaskier. It overwhelmed him, therefore he grunted a reply before forcing the words he wanted to say out. “Don’t go,” he winced at the commanding tone it held, sighed, closed his eyes to avoid the pure  _ hope  _ in the field of blue staring back at him. “I’m sorry...stay, I-I’d like you to if you’d want,”

He heard Jaskier’s heartbeat quicken with a soft inhale of breath. “Geralt,” the bard whispered out, “could you look at me?” Geralt hesitantly opened his eyes to meet Jaskier’s. He never understood how the shades of blue were constantly filled to the brim with emotions. Jaskier was smiling widely at him, cheeks wet from tears, looking ever so  _ happy. _ “I would want nothing more than that.”

Geralt couldn’t help but smile back, thinking about how different Jaskier was to other humans—filled with so much innocence and love. 

_ Could he ever love me? _

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed this short fic, leave any feedback you have, I'd love to know what you think of this piece. If you're interested, follow me on Twitter (@SpiralsInTime) for more Witcher content.


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